


He'll Be Coming Round (When He Comes)

by fideliant



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Hair, Bottom Thorin, Consensual Somnophilia, Drugged Sex, Fingerfucking, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sleepy Sex, Somnophilia, Top Bilbo, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3144317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliant/pseuds/fideliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If this is Thorin's idea of trying to get out of an imminent scolding, Bilbo has to admit that he's certainly making a good effort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He'll Be Coming Round (When He Comes)

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed that the PWP tag had been neglected for quite some time. This is my annual obligatory contribution. Apparently, speed-writing porn is how I cope with having to return to uni after Christmas break.
> 
> On an important, semi-serious note here: I haven't tagged this as dub-con, but it does have elements of that if you squint _reaaallly_ hard, so if you're triggered or squicked out by sex with a sleeping person and all of the possible connotations, this is not the fic for you.

Thorin Oakenshield is an absolute, incontrovertible, mind-bendingly infuriating grade-A idiot.

It’s not like Bilbo didn’t already figure this out a while back, but he repeats it to himself all the same as he climbs the stairs to the infirmary two at a time. That stupid idiot, that idiotic piece of stupid. Maybe one of these days his favourite sport won’t be to scare the complete living daylights out of Bilbo, but today’s not that day.

He bursts into the infirmary, doors swinging wide in his wake, and the eye-roll that Thorin greets him with the instant they see each other just makes him all the more angry, oh _yes._

“You’re an idiot.” Bilbo strides over to the cot that the healers have placed Thorin in and bends down to inspect the swathe of bloodied bandages running up the dwarf king’s side. A sulky expression is Thorin’s answer of choice when Bilbo glares at him. “Gored by a hog, was that really how you wanted to go, hmm? Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and Slayer of a Thousand Orcs, soundly defeated in combat by course three at dinner.”

“It was an accident.” Thorin pouts, and the motion that he makes with his arms indicate he’s trying to fold them, but he screws his face up in pain and he lays them flat by his sides instead.

“Accident? You mean when you decided to run off after it and leave everyone else behind? Was that an accident, Thorin? What on earth were you thinking?”

“I had the situation entirely under control!”

“And yet here you are. Bled half to death and being a total git about it, I might add,” Bilbo says, and pokes Thorin in the forehead because he knows he hates it when he does that.

“Are you here to torment me or to serve some actual useful function?” Thorin growls. Bilbo shifts aside for a moment to make space for a healer to refresh a layer of bandages. “Like they are, see?” Thorin waves approvingly at the rest of the dwarves who’re milling about the room, rinsing out flannels in sinks and steeping out herbs in basins filled with hot water.

Bilbo takes a deep, exasperated breath and resolutely does not raise his voice. Thorin may be an idiot but he’s a royal one, and more importantly, his idiot, and Bilbo always treats whatever he thinks of to be his with all the care in the world. No exceptions. “If you thought to listen to me every now and then, you wouldn’t even need to be patched up all the bloody time,” he says instead.

Thorin snorts, and flinches. Pain turns the rude noise even ruder.

“I’m _serious,_ Thorin.”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Thorin snaps. “Though I would prefer it if you would save this lecture for when I’m well enough to listen.”

“I tell you this _all the time,_ ” Bilbo sighs. It’s true, he does, and even then Thorin never listens. He knows this because his dwarf lover is now lying on a sickbed, bandages covering up the gaping hole in his side that would’ve probably killed him if he'd been found half an hour later after being injured.

Thorin just mutters something mutinous in reply, and then the other healers are closing in around them with more bandages and foul-smelling poultices, shooing Bilbo from the room before they attend to Thorin. So banished from Thorin’s side, Bilbo lingers in the hallway outside for a couple minutes more before it becomes clear that they’re not going to let him back in, and then he’s finally stalking away, grumbling under his breath.

***

It’s later in the day when Bilbo makes his way back to the infirmary to check on how Thorin’s doing, but he’s waylaid by one of the healers from the room whom he recognises by face but not name. Standing in the main hall, the dwarf furnishes Bilbo with the relevant details — the cleaning of Thorin’s wound, the compression bandages they’ve applied, tonics they've made him drink to get his strength up. He also tells Bilbo that they have relocated Thorin back to their room now that he’s no longer in any immediate danger of losing his life, though they will have to check on the wound daily to make sure that it does not fester.

“Alright, then,” Bilbo says, nodding. “Was there anything else?”

The dwarf nods as he speaks. “We’ve given him something strong for the pain, so he may not wake until it is night, and then getting him some food would be recommended."

“Okay.”

“Oh, and one last thing — he also instructed for us to pass this to you.” The dwarf produces a folded slip of parchment from his robes and holds it out.

Bilbo raises an eyebrow and accepts it. “Thanks. What is it?”

The dwarf shrugs. “For your eyes only, he said.”

He unfolds the parchment and reads it, and can’t help but blink for several long seconds and swallow at the words written on it in Thorin’s messy scrawl.

_Make love to me before I wake_

“Is something the matter?”

Bilbo clears his throat and crumples the parchment in his hand, almost dropping it in the process. “Um. No, not at all. No. Nothing’s wrong. Say, um. You know what, I think I’ll go up and check on him, see if he’s okay. Hm, yes, I’ll do that right now…”

He feels the dwarf’s strange look on his back all the way up the main stairs.

***

It’s completely dark in their room when Bilbo slips inside and locks the door behind him. Someone’s drawn the curtains, so he tiptoes over to the window and slides one back to let some late afternoon sunlight in. Much better, at least now he won’t be stubbing his toe on anything. He turns his attention to their bed, then, to the dwarf tucked cosily beneath the sheets, and moves to stand by his side.

Thorin lies still and unconscious, his face slack, the covers pulled up to his stomach. He doesn’t have a shirt on, which is promising, and Bilbo lifts and peers down the blanket to confirm his suspicions that the lack of clothing extends to the rest of his body. His heart thumps at the realisation of this fact, and the memory of what’s written on the piece of parchment in his pocket, and he wonders what Thorin could’ve possibly meant by that.

Well, it’s obvious enough, isn’t it?

Still, though.

Bilbo sits at the edge of the bed, just a short distance away from the corner of Thorin’s pillow, and watches. Just observing, nothing more. He watches the slow rise and fall of Thorin’s hairy chest, the way his eyes move ever so slightly behind closed lids, and listens to his breathing, the heavy, measured way it moves in and out. He leans closer, holding his own breath, just in case if he wakes Thorin, but Thorin doesn’t even stir when Bilbo presses his mouth to his, not even when he pushes his tongue in until the barrier of Thorin’s teeth stops him from going any deeper.

_Well now,_ Bilbo thinks as he draws back, licking dry lips. This could get very, very interesting indeed.

He crosses over to his side of the bed, strips down and clambers onto their bed to kneel next to Thorin, watching him for a while longer. Gods, he looks so handsome like this, laid out and fast asleep. Bilbo reaches out with a hand, resting it lightly on Thorin’s stomach. No response. He rubs experimentally, fanning his fingers against the slack cords of muscle beneath, and marvels both at the velvety quality of Thorin’s body hair and the utter lack of reaction from him. If this is Thorin's idea of trying to get out of an imminent scolding, Bilbo has to admit that he's certainly making a good effort.

Grinning, Bilbo lowers his face to Thorin’s temple to kiss him there, breathing in the lingering antiseptic smell still clinging to his hair. He doesn’t stop there, pressing kisses along his ear and cheek until he can mouth over Thorin’s beard and rub his face into the dwarf’s bristly neck. Thorin still doesn’t move. Bilbo hums in approval, and drags his hand up Thorin’s chest to run the pad of his thumb over an exposed nipple, but even so the rhythm of Thorin’s breathing continues undisturbed.

That healer dwarf certainly wasn’t kidding when he said they’d given Thorin something strong. Normally by this point Thorin would be turned all the way on, rutting against him and groaning to be fucked from head to toe, but he continues to lie docilely as if nothing is happening at all. So still, so quiet. There’s something thrilling in how blissfully oblivious Thorin is to how Bilbo’s touching him, and Bilbo feels a mixture of guilt and arousal itching up his spine.

With his cheek still burning from Thorin’s beard, Bilbo lies next to him to press soft kisses to his shoulder, his upper arm, the sinewy curve of his bicep. The dwarf’s skin is soft and warm to the touch, lightly furred and so very inviting. He raises Thorin’s arm out of the way and tuts at the bundle of bandages plastered to the side of his torso, but moves closer to nose luxuriously into his armpit, breathing the scent of him in. The smell of antiseptic comes particularly sharp down here; Bilbo avoids touching the bandages, and moves his hand lower to scratch lazily into the crook of Thorin’s groin instead.

As if beginning to wake up, Thorin does move at this, ever so slightly, and Bilbo freezes, but with a twitch and a snuffle, he settles back down more. This dwarf, always in the habit of scaring him stiff even when asleep. Bilbo removes his hand from Thorin for the time being, reaching down to fist his cock and revelling in the way the head rubs up against Thorin’s thigh eagerly with every pump of his fingers. It’s warm and dozy here as they are, delectably so, and Bilbo knows he probably wouldn’t take very long at all if he really wanted to knock one out right there and then.

But being wanked on and then left in bed probably wasn’t what Thorin had in mind. The idea continues to tempt, though.

Slowly, Bilbo gets up and crawls down the bed, and as he moves he pulls the blanket along with him. There, he sits with his legs crossed and takes a moment to revel in the sight of Thorin lying before him. Entirely naked, the definitions of the dwarf’s impressive body are all too clear even in the dim light filtering through the curtains. Thick muscles make up his arms, torso, and legs, and a lush scattering of dark body hair covers him from collarbone to navel to groin. Numerous scars, gnarled and off-white and in assorted shapes and sizes, adorn areas of his skin. It’s not the first time Bilbo’s seen Thorin naked, but never like this before, with Thorin passive and silent and more vulnerable than Bilbo can remember.

When it becomes impossible to resist any further, Bilbo spreads Thorin’s legs to allow his impressive girth to hang loose between them. Gods, Thorin’s cock. He palms it easily, pressing down with his fingers. It’s soft and flaccid but still large in his hand, and Bilbo can’t help but duck down to mouth the foreskin back over the glans.

Thorin lets out a groan, inarticulate nonsense escaping his lips. His cock twitches on the flat of Bilbo’s tongue and begins a slow swelling. Carefully, Bilbo grasps Thorin by the root with both hands to suckle at him. He keeps from using his tongue, not just yet, but it seems to be enough judging by how Thorin continues to expand inside his mouth.

Another groan, hands shifting listlessly in the sheets, but still Thorin does not — or perhaps cannot — move. All the more better for that. When Thorin isn’t going mental and fucking into Bilbo’s mouth, Bilbo finds he’s free to take his time with sucking Thorin off, to feel and taste him as intimately as he desires without being the risk of choking. He doesn’t even need to hold Thorin’s hips down, merely steadies his cock as he mouths and sucks and tongues lazily at the glans. When he uses his teeth and gnaws gently over glossy skin stretched taut just for the hell of it, he’s delighted to find this transgression goes unpunished as well.

Eventually the bitter leak of precome warns him to tone it down or risk ruining everything, and Bilbo pulls off with a sigh, allowing Thorin’s erection to slip from his lips. The noise Thorin makes at this is low and sleepy and vaguely frustrated, and Bilbo chuckles.

“Soon,” he whispers, petting Thorin on the knee. “Very soon, love.”

It takes some heavy lifting and a considerable amount of time for Bilbo to work out how to do it without aggravating or putting pressure on Thorin’s injury, but he does manage to roll Thorin over so that he’s on his stomach. With Thorin lying prone and motionless, Bilbo sits back for a moment to admire his own handiwork. But eventually ogling Thorin’s bum proves a poor substitute for the act of actually getting to fondle it, and Bilbo leans in to start smoothing his hands up the backs of Thorin’s thighs.

Fingers first, kneading covetously at soft flesh before traversing further upwards to press into where bum meets spine. Here, Bilbo plants firm kisses against Thorin’s lower back and trails lower until he can go no further without pushing Thorin’s cheeks apart. When he rubs his thumb tentatively into the pale pink pucker of Thorin’s arsehole, Thorin turns his head on his pillow, mumbles yet another incoherent word that becomes lost in the fog of drug-induced sleep.

Dear _gods,_ this shouldn’t be as hot as Bilbo’s finding it. He’s hard at how his thumb dips inside Thorin so effortlessly, at the slackness of the dwarf’s body, at the snuffling noises Thorin keeps making against his pillow. It’s not like he has any problems getting hard for Thorin in general, but with this, there is something different in the inherent filthiness of this, regardless of what Thorin’s conveyed to him, and it’s so incredibly arousing that he’s actually dizzy from it.

Lowering himself down between Thorin’s spread thighs, Bilbo kisses and nibbles and licks around Thorin’s arsehole until he grows bored and needs more. He flicks his tongue against it, pushing in with just the tip, testing and tasting. Thorin mumbles again, a drowsy sound that Bilbo knows better than to worry about. He licks his way in, as far as he can possibly go without straining his jaw, and moans into Thorin at the way his body parts magnificently with every sharp thrust. Each time he surfaces for breath and dives back in again, the muscle yields to the pierce of his tongue with almost no resistance at all. With Thorin unconscious and completely relaxed, working him open in this manner has never been so fantastically easy before.

He pulls out and sits back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Thorin’s starting to squirm a little, which is worrying — it might just mean that Bilbo won’t have him like this for much longer. Best not to drag it out too much or risk missing the point of all this. With that in mind, he reaches for their bedside table to pull open the top drawer, retrieving the pewter flask of oil they always keep in there and tipping the contents generously over his fingers. Some of it gets on the sheets, but never mind that. Where this is going, oil will be the least of their worries in the next couple minutes or so.

Pushing two fingers into Thorin takes very little effort for all the tongue-fucking that Bilbo has already administered. Bilbo presses in, twisting his fingers until he’s knuckle-deep and the soft bulge of Thorin’s prostate bobs up under his fingertips. He has to massage patiently and repetitively at it for a full minute before Thorin begins to respond to his ministrations, but it’s well worth the effort. Thorin curls his fingers and grunts, his body jerking in quick, minute flutters, and Bilbo grins. Not long at all, now.

He adds a third finger to stretch Thorin a bit more, and now there’s barely enough room to wriggle them about, but it’s fine. Experience tells him that it’s all he needs. Thrusting in proves difficult, a snug fit for four fingers. He manages it anyway, and as he pulls out Thorin is shifting his hips about, cock dragging about the bed and leaving behind sticky smears of precome over the sheets, all the while unmistakably seeking friction in the midst of a host of needy rumbles. Bilbo knows the way Thorin likes to rut when he’s fucking the dwarf, against anything at all when he’s desperate enough, something that he has seen numerous times already. It won’t be long before Thorin’s waking up and fucking the mattress and then he’ll come from that and not Bilbo’s cock in his arse, and that… that’s just not acceptable, Bilbo thinks irritably, after all the work he’s put into painstakingly preparing Thorin up to this point.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he whispers, pulling his fingers out and reaching for the oil again. He slicks himself up, tugs himself back to full hardness and crawls to cover Thorin’s body with his own. With one hand, he balances his weight by gingerly pushing himself up against the bed. He uses the other to line up his cock with Thorin’s loosened hole, digging his knees between Thorin’s thighs to keep them spread, and then proceeds to sink right into him, slow and deliberate.

When he’s securely seated inside him, Bilbo lowers himself flat onto Thorin’s back as carefully as he can. He sighs in contentment, licking dreamily at the dwarf’s shoulder blades. Thorin hadn’t so much as made a peep whilst Bilbo was pushing into him, much less moved about, and his insides are soft and relaxed around Bilbo’s cock. Bilbo fucks into him a couple times, enjoying the stretch of Thorin’s body when he thrusts in and out. The squelch of oil dribbling from Thorin’s filled arsehole is only just audible over the groans Thorin is beginning to make, and it’s just about the most decadent thing Bilbo’s heard in weeks.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, his hands clasped to Thorin’s shoulders for purchase. While Thorin’s already stirring and groaning, he’s still not moving all that much, leaving Bilbo free to pull all the way out and press back into him as slowly as he desires. Oh, gods, that’s good, when he snaps his hips forward and Thorin isn’t bearing down on him with every thrust. Even more delicious are the choice seconds where he’s sliding in and he deliberately takes it slow just to watch Thorin’s arsehole widening and narrowing around him every time his body swallows Bilbo’s cock, so bloody gorgeous like that, the way Thorin’s so open for him and him alone.

“Mmph, hmm?”

His voice clearer and louder than ever before, Thorin spreads his legs even wider under Bilbo, and Bilbo waits for Thorin to try and move before he thrusts in again, shoving Thorin down against the mattress with his whole body and holding him there. Thorin goes very quiet and very still, then groans out once more and moves his hips weakly to press up against Bilbo’s groin.

“Ughh,” Thorin drowses, his words heavy from a cocktail of sleep and sedatives. “Bilbo…?”

Bilbo rests his arms next to Thorin’s, threading his fingers into his. “Yes. It’s me. Can you feel me yet?”

A squeezing pressure alerts him to Thorin clenching his arse, and Thorin lets out a startled groan. “Oh, Mahal — you… oh, gods. Oh, _gods._ ”

His heart pounding, Bilbo eases himself down onto Thorin and kisses the back of his neck, open-mouthed and hot-breathed. Thorin’s breathing hitches and he moves like he’s trying to arch his back, but collapses back onto the bed under their combined weight. They lie like this for some time, Bilbo rolling his hips, Thorin squirming restlessly beneath him. Still in the process of waking fully, the dwarf can’t seem to rut against the bed to his own satisfaction, and all he can manage is to groan and clench and grind his arse back onto Bilbo’s cock whilst Bilbo fucks him, tidally slow.

Bilbo breathes in sharply through his nose, staving back the unfulfilled urge to pant. It’s only a matter of time and increasing arousal, however, and soon enough they’re both gasping with it. The air over them feels hotter and heavier now, like an invisible blanket that cannot be pulled away. His skin feels like it’s burning. He licks up the sweat from Thorin’s bare shoulder and closes his eyes, musky salt at the back of his throat. The heat of orgasm builds in his stomach, very nearly there, but only just fractions away from reaching the point of glorious overflow.

“Bilbo,” Thorin moans. He pants breathlessly as Bilbo adjusts his position slightly, shifting his cock along damp, sensitive flesh. “Bilbo, ugh. Gwaah!”

“Good?” Bilbo murmurs. “Is that good?”

The next sound out of Thorin is half-choke, half-sob, as if close to tears, “Yes, _gods,_ yes —”

Bilbo bites his lip, gives one last thrust in and starts to come, his pulse thudding in his ears, cock twitching deep inside Thorin. He keeps thrusting even after he’s finished, before he can start to go soft. A rhythm continued, he forces his thrusts harder in the burst of the head-rush, that spike of adrenaline that accompanies coitus. Thorin gropes for him clumsily, settling his hands on the sides of Bilbo’s bum and hanging on before he grunts and shudders and comes all over oil-stained bedsheets.

His back aching, Bilbo rolls off of Thorin and sprawls right next to him, breathing heavily through his mouth. There’s sweat matting his hair and sticking to his bedclothes and everything smells of sex, which is altogether fantastic and sublime in and of itself. He reaches out without looking to stroke Thorin’s beard with his fingers. Thorin’s arm creeps over his chest. Bilbo smiles and turns onto his side to face him, finds him with his face still half-buried in his pillow, one droopy eye blinking blearily up at him.

“I got your note,” Bilbo whispers, combing his fingers through Thorin’s long hair.

Thorin’s eye flutters shut, then opens again after a while. “Evidently,” he mumbles, sounding like he’s about to fall asleep again.

“I still maintain that you’re an idiot, but I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.”

Thorin snorts.

“Don’t think this makes up for you nearly getting yourself killed,” Bilbo warns. “We’ll still need to talk about that, mister man, and I’ll bend your ear if I have to.”

“Mmf.”

“Don’t ‘mmf’ me, Thorin.”

“Mmmmmmmf.”

Bilbo laughs, prods Thorin in the forehead, and laughs some more when Thorin swats at him, misses and growls in frustration. Beyond that, he helps Thorin to turn over onto his back, slots up next to him, and sighs with his face nuzzled against Thorin’s neck. Thorin shivers and breathes with him, and yes, this is fine, there are definitely worse ways to waste a night.

Sure, there’ll be loads of shouting to go round when it's morning, but for now, they sleep.


End file.
